


if you're lost you can always be found

by sergeant_angel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-ship, R plus L equals J, Shippy if you Squint, and tell me why i didn't GET REUNIONS, book canon and some show canon, i continue my trend of naming things poorly, i'm still working through it, idc, inspired by gifest, like see d&d this isn't even hard, look how easy it is to write even semi okay reunions, now look back at me d&d, originally posted on tumblr so if you follow me this will be a repeat, reunion fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 20:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12092817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel
Summary: Jon leaves Dragonstone and heads to Winterfell, because Bran and Arya are alive. A Dragon Queen is all well and good, but family is family.Or, another reunion fic nobody asked for.





	if you're lost you can always be found

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is the gifset](http://sergeant-angels-trashcan.tumblr.com/post/165323502190/dailyjonrya-she-could-always-make-jon-smile-i) that inspired this along with the original post of the fic. this version has been lightly edited for your reading pleasure. I mean was I supposed to see this and not write reunion fic? idk. anyway, give it a looksee!

She is not there when Jon reaches Winterfell. 

It’s Jon’s own fault. The rest of his party is still nearly a day’s ride away. Jon had simply been unable to wait for the slow drag of riders behind him, of tethering his haste to the slowness of others—

Well, he’s still King in the North, and in this, he’ll do what he likes, maturity, solemnity, kingly appearance be damned. He wants to see his little brother.

He wants to see his sister.

****

It had taken everything in him to stay at Dragonstone when he had gotten the raven from Sansa. A half-hundred times he must have thought of it, lined the words up neat in his head so they could march out of his mouth informing the Dragon Queen that he had other matters to attend, but something had stopped him every time. Davos, Tyrion, the dragonglass, fear. 

Fear it would be a lie. Fear it was a mistake. Fear that he would be too changed, or not enough, or that the piece of him the Lord of Light kept would be apparent to Arya, who had always known him so well. Still, he kept the raven scroll with him, tucked in his clothes, next to his heart.  _Bran is alive. Arya is alive. Both are safe and home._

So Jon had stayed at Dragonstone until the smith came. Gendry, Robert Baratheon’s bastard. And, it turned out, friend of Arya. 

"She saved me," Gendry told Jon. "I don't know what happened to her, but I'll help the Starks whatever way I can. I owe her that."

“Arya’s alive,” Jon said. “I just got word. She’s at Winterfell.” And in saying it, in seeing another take joy in the news, Jon wondered to himself _why am I still here?_  His place, clearly, was at Winterfell. There were diplomatic reasons to stay, and certain ways Jon could ask or demand to be allowed back to his ship, but in the end, he simply told the truth. There were practical reasons, of course, and he told Daenerys that the dragonglass was needed to start making weapons, that Winter is here, that the North needs him. But the truth…the truth was plain.

“I need to go home.” 

****

 

So Jon urges his mount on, seldom stopping to rest along the road, Ser Davos at his side because it wouldn’t do for the King to ride completely alone, never mind Ghost’s presence.

Jon arrives at Winterfell, and Bran and Sansa are waiting for him, Bran with a knowing smile on his face as Jon throws himself from his horse.

 _Arya isn’t there_. Jon stuffs the disappointment down his throat and smiles, crouching in front of Bran, drinking him in.

The last time Jon had seen Bran, he’d been a child, and there had been no way of knowing if he would ever open his eyes again. Bran looks different—older and wiser—but he smiles and he’s the little boy Jon taught how to fight and Jon embraces him.

“I told you,” Bran says to Sansa once Jon has let him go.

“Told her what?”

“That you would be here before your scouts,” Sansa sighs, exasperated and fond.

Jon remembers a dream he had, years and years ago, and taps a finger to the middle of Bran’s forehead. “Did you see it?”

Bran’s smile is all the answer Jon needs. He opens his mouth to ask another question—

“She’s not here,” Bran informs him.  “She–”

“She didn’t believe you’d get here this early,” Sansa cuts in smoothly, and Bran frowns at her.

“No, she’s afraid that Jon—“

“ _Bran_.”

“What’s Arya afraid of?” Jon will  _destroy_ anything that Arya is afraid of.

“She’s changed,” Sansa hesitates. “She’s not a little girl any more, and she did things to survive, as we all did.”

It's the way she says it that lets Jon know. Arya has killed to survive.

“She’s afraid you won’t want her,” Bran adds, as if this wasn’t clear to Jon.

Arya is afraid of  _him_. A tremor moves through Jon’s shoulders.  _He_ failed  _her_ and she is afraid he will not want her, and the thought makes Jon feel ill.

“She’ll be back by nightfall,” Bran rests his hand on Jon’s arm and offers him a reassuring squeeze. “She didn’t go far, just the wolfswood.”

“She goes there often,” Sansa’s smile is soft when she speaks of Arya, speaking to a fondness she had not had for her sister when they were younger. “And she is more than capable of protecting herself. I’m sure Nymeria will catch scent of Ghost and urge her home.”

****

“Jon,” Bran says suddenly as they dine. “You should go for a walk along the battlements. It’s a fine night for it.”

Jon looks to Sansa, who nods. Bran is the three-eyed raven, and Jon may not fully understand what that means, but he knows enough to take his counsel when it is offered. He dons his cloak and waves off Ser Davos before walking out into the cold.

Snow has started to fall, light flakes of it carried by a gentle breeze. It is not heavy enough or wet enough to stick, floating and catching the dying rays of the sun as the world begins to fade into an inky blue.

Part of Jon knows where to go, so he allows his feet to take him where they will. He stands in the dimming world, staring out across the land.

He watches, too, with his crows eyes, seeking out movement. Perhaps Bran sent him here to watch for Arya. He will do it, gladly.

Something changes in the air—a taste of nothing that is different, the wind pattern shifting, moving around something—

It’s her. Jon does not even need to turn his head, but he knows.

She’s so  _quiet_ , he thinks, before slowly, slowly turning to look at her.

She doesn’t look back, at first.

She’s still small. A head and a half shorter than him, at least. She stands calm but aware, her hands clasped behind her back, and there is something indefinable that radiates from her but Jon might say it is danger. She’s deadly.

She knows he is looking at her. 

She turns to him, more slowly than even he had turned, and Jon sees the fear Sansa had said. She keeps her eyes low and when she finally looks at him, looks him in the eye, he sees hesitation and apprehension.

The lines of her face are sharp, her hair pulled back from her face, a dagger at her hip.

Jon can’t help the smile. He can’t stop the laugh, a small, giddy thing. He has to smile, he has to laugh, because there is no way other for him to release the pressure building in his chest. It feels though his heart is going to burst—it has to overflow in some way. He has to look away, look at his feet, because she’s  _Arya_ and she’s home, and looking at her after years apart is like seeing the sun after a lifetime in the dark. Blinding, overwhelming, warming. His cheeks begin to ache and Jon tries to remember the last time he smiled like this. The last time he felt this warm, untouched by winter.

Eight years? Ten?

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Arya smile as well. He tilts his head to watch her better he can see it bloom across her face, small and tentative before it widens, crinkling the corners of her eyes.

He wants to draw her close, to muss her hair and never let her out of his sight—

But he doesn’t know all of this Arya’s walls and sharp edges. He will; by the gods he will learn  _all_  of them. He will learn who put that darkness behind her eyes and what happened that made her think he would not want her. He will learn these things so that when he tells her there is nothing she could do that would make him love her less, Arya will know he speaks true.

They stand like that, smiling like fools, silent, for several moments that are sweet and full.

A faint breeze stirs his cloak, and Arya is next to him. Silent and swift, she reminds him of Ghost.

She says his name.

“Jon.”

That is all it takes.

Arya saying his name is all it takes to change him from king to a man, from ruler to family. He pulls her close and if he weeps, what of it? Her arms slide around his waist, under his cloak, her head resting over his heart.

Arya sighs. “I’m glad it still beats.”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut at that—did Bran tell her? Did she dream it?—and curls his hand around the back of her head, rocking them side to side. Something bumps his leg and Jon looks down to see the slim Braavosi sword he had given her when they were children and their pack was large. All these years and she still has Needle, and that is a wonder in itself, a small wonder wrapped in a larger miracle that Jon now holds. 

The tears freeze on his cheeks, and Jon will take it, gladly, a thousand times over, the numbing burn of it happily endured.

Because Arya is next to his heart. She is  _home_. 


End file.
